My Ghost and I
by Kerri B
Summary: Ever woken up feeling a bit detached? Me too. Ever woken up dead? I didn’t think so. No, our boys didn’t die, but neither does their newest ghost friend. Apparently, the body and bones decided to see the world without him. . .
1. Prologue

Title: My Ghost and I

Author(s): Kerri B.

Rating: Most likely T for language and/or violence

Disclaimer: Woo! Disclaimer! You all probably didn't know this, but I only write stories so I can tell everybody how much I don't own it.

Summary: Ever woken up feeling a bit detached? Me too. Ever woken up dead? I didn't think so. No, our boys didn't die, but neither does their newest ghost friend. Apparently, the body and bones decided to see the world without him. . .

Prologue

It is a well known fact that when you find yourself in a situation where you are in any kind of pain, thinking about something other then the frickin' awful pain you are in will help you through. Thoughts such as a warm hamburger and shake waiting for you at home, or hot models giving you a much needed massage on a sunny beach should probably suffice. Perhaps even paying taxes would help.

Another well known fact is that the previously mentioned fact is a load crap.

Dean Winchester figured as much about five minutes ago. He wasn't cut, bruised, skinned, cauterized, scraped, lacerated, stabbed, beaten, burned, or torn into tiny little pieces at the time this revelation took place though. Five minutes ago, he was helping his brother Sam with an almost absurd problem. A pretty damn heavy problem.

Exactly four minutes and thirty seconds ago, both he and Sam were carrying this problem to the nearest cemetery for a proper burial. Sam focused on his breathing while carrying the feet of this problematic character. Dean focused on cursing Sam while attending to the shoulders.

Of course, it hadn't really been Sam's fault that they were hauling a six foot, four inch, two-hundred-fifty pound man across an unimaginably long stretch of grave riddled grass at two o'clock in the morning. It wasn't his fault that the poor bastard up and died without any family to give a crap. But it was Sam's fault on how he knew this.

If the damn kid was meant to be a therapist, then he shouldn't have been born in the Winchester family. Such pansy jobs were strictly forbidden from the family after their dad had taken control in raising them. Though seeing as Sam was always trying to share his girly feelings all the time, Dean figured that they were lucky he had tried to pursue a career in being a lawyer instead of said alternative.

Then again, it wasn't Sam's fault that he got sucked into being this guys lent ear either. He had merely been sitting next to an already dug up grave, waiting while Dean was back at the Impala gathering salt and matches, as the man walked up, drunk as hell, sat down next to his brother, letting his legs swing over the edge of the dirt cliff, and began talking.

Ten minutes Sam sat there listening to the man's woeful tale of a screwed up childhood, bad transition to adulthood, many a divorce, the death of his overbearing parents, grandparents, great grandparents, an adopted brother and his wife, his ex wives and their new husbands, and his much loved Saint Bernard, Tito.

Dean had only arrived on the scene when the drunk finished up his tale with a quick and unwanted hug before falling dead on the ground.

That wasn't surprising. The guy was so wasted he didn't even get that he was sitting at the edge of a freshly dug grave, and he was obviously sick of the way life was treating him anyway.

The weight was also not a surprise, seeing as how it looked like he thought exercising was an over exaggerated myth.

What was a surprise however was that after they dug a decent sized hole, dropped the man in, and were about to cover the body with the dirt, a voice called out from behind with a cheeriness that to Dean, could only be described as nails on a chalkboard.

"Hey, dudes!"

And that brings us to the here and now.

The time and place upon where the present begins.

The very moment when both brothers turn around to face the blissfully unaware smile of a recently deceased, almost buried drunkard.

A moment, that Dean summed up very well in two short words.

"Aw, hell."

Side note: No offense was intended to therapists, or extra cheery personalities. This was all done in Dean's POV. Well, me narrating from his perspective anyway. . . And he didn't strike me as the kind of guy that would appreciate a therapist's role in life.

And as for you freakishly happy, cheery people. . . I have no words for you. You'd all just smile and say it doesn't matter anyway and you're just glad that your personality could be described in so many adjectives.

So there you have it. My prologue. Shall we continue on? Read at your own risk. Side effects may include: laughing, gagging, chortling, grinning, wheezing, snorting, snickering, chuckling, sniggering, smiling, and the inability to control your bladder functions.

Or I could just be tooting my own horn. ;-)

Can't say I didn't warn you. - Kerri


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Who The Hell Are You?

The Oxford University Press dictionary describes shock as:

1. A sudden upsetting or surprising event or experience, or the resulting feeling.

2. An acute medical condition associated with a fall in blood pressure, caused by loss of blood, severe burns, sudden emotional stress, etc.

3. A violent shaking movement caused by an impact, explosion, or tremor.

4. An electric shock.

It also goes on to give more suggestions in case the first four were not to your liking, such as:

1. A group of twelve sheaves of grain placed upright and supporting each other to allow the grain to dry and ripen.

2. An unkempt or thick mass of hair.

Now why Dean was thinking about that right now, he wasn't exactly sure. But he had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the man standing in front of him. Or perhaps it was because he was feeling said shock and wanted to know which category he fell under.

"Man, it feels good tonight. And look at the stars! Their so bright."

Sam managed to effectively blink his eyes at the man before them. A minute ago, he was a fat drunkard with a scraggly beard and slurred speech. Now he was a clean-shaven, well toned man of which he would peg as being somewhere in his mid twenties. . .

"But honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing out here at. . ." he glanced down at his watch. ". . . two o' five in the morning." he gave an impressed whistle. "My parents would kill me."

The idea that this apparition was worried about dying when he was already dead, struck Dean as funny in that morbidly fascinating sort of way things like that are bound to strike a person at two o' five point thirty seconds in the morning.

"So," Sam started slowly, unsure on how exactly to handle this situation. "You don't know why you're here?"

"Not really." the guy stated sincerely then looked curiously around. "A graveyard? Why the heck are we at a graveyard?" his eyes then narrowed in suspicion. "And who the hell are you guys?"

Dean rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of this exchange and just as he was about to announce that they were this ghost's worst nightmare and prepare to be terminated and all that shit, Sam decided to take the more formal approach.

"Uh, I'm Sam, and this is my brother Dean."

The ghost closed his eyes for moment to process the information. Dean took the opportunity to elbow his brother in the ribs. "Ow." Sam yelped quietly before sending a death glare to the elder.

The ghost then reopened his eyes and gave an unnervingly pleasant grin, while offering his hand. "I'm Leslie."

There was no stopping the guffaw building up inside of the eldest hunter. Well, until Sam decided that it was his turn to give a little rib bruising himself. "Ow."

Leslie took in the brother's reactions and also did not miss the fact that neither of them made an attempt to shake his hand. What was up with these guys? Why the heck were they looking at him like he had just risen from one of these graves or something? Because, seriously, it was starting to get on his nerves. "So, uh, either of you want to tell me why we're standing in the middle of a cemetery?"

"Well, you see-" Of course Sam would try to reason with the thing. Thankfully Dean was here to save the day.

"Yeah. Here, let me show you." And with that, Dean Winchester pulled out one of his favorite hunting rifles, hidden well by the long trench coat he had been wearing that night and pulled back on the trigger, eagerly waiting for the rounds of rock salt to come shooting out so as deal with their Casper friend.

But all he heard was the taunting click of a jammed barrel that seemed to say: What? You actually wanted me to fire? 'Shit'

That was kinda what Leslie's reaction was too, except with a lot more feeling. "Holy shit!" he screamed out before he heard the much prayed for click of a stubborn gun. He gaped at Dean with a fearful hurt marring his features. "Y-y. . . YOU TRIED TO SHOOT ME! You twisted sonuvabitch!"

Sam watched in slightly amused horror as the rifle jammed, leaving a shell shocked and rather dumbfounded Dean standing alone against a now very pissed off Leslie. The events from then on seemed to move in slow motion as the spirit glared angrily at his brother then jumped in the air, yelling a war cry as Dean threw his hands up to protect himself from the new found threat he created.

The impact was going to hurt, Dean knew. Just because the guy lost lots of the fat hanging over his belt didn't mean he still didn't have that weight now measured in muscle. 'What the hell have I done to deserve this?' he asked himself miserably.

Leslie seemed to be suspended in the air in Matrix fashion as he hung over the now helpless, and hapless, hunter. He thought that the time slow theory was a myth created by people who liked to draw out the suspense for well paying movie goers, and thriller readers that had no grasp on reality. Hey! Who knew?

And just like in those movies and books, time would regain it's normal equilibrium, so as not to make the viewers or readers have a heart attack at the build up of overly stressful drama, sending Leslie plummeting down toward Dean in an amazing display of body mass versus gravity.

The collision though, was actually rather anticlimactic, seeing as how Leslie simply sailed right through the elder and landed onto the soft grass with a silent thud, leaving both the participants in this particular charade, relatively unscathed. Physically anyway. And Dean was emotionally sound. Leslie, however, was pretty sure he was going to need years worth of therapy after this.

"Holy shit! What the hell are you?" Leslie screamed out from his stunned position on the ground.

Dean almost laughed at the question, coming from the spirit of a dead drunk and all. . . "What am I? Well that's real rich coming from you."

Leslie scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion. "Are you a druggie?"

Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No. Now I think it's about time you stop playing dumb, cause you're not good at it. We both know what you are, and if you don't want to go peacefully then we'll be forced - well Sam will be forced. I for one will enjoy it - to send you back by our own means." He thought it was a rather well put threat.

"What the frickin' hell are you talking about?" 'God, why do I always get stuck with all the wackiest people in this world? What did I do to deserve this?'

"Uh, Dean." Sam pulled his brother aside and nodded his head over to a stricken Leslie. "I don't think he knows."

"What? How the hell could he not know that he's dead?"

"I don't know." Sam confessed. "But, look at him. He thinks you're some psycho trigger happy killer, and he has no idea how he fell right through you."

Dean glanced over a now vomiting Leslie. "I didn't know spirits could do that."

"What? Fall through things?"

'Honestly,' Dean thought while rolling his eyes for another time that night- morning. . . uh, dark time. 'How is it even possible that a guy could be that slow? Are we even related?' "No, moron." he jutted his chin at the miserable looking ghost on the grass, and then the pile of puke next to him.

"Oh."

"We need to tell him."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?' So we can kill him! He can't stay you know, he's dead."

"Wouldn't that make killing him a mute point." Sam countered smugly.

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Keep it up smartass and _Leslie_ won't be the only body gone missing tonight." He whined out the word 'Leslie' in a nasal sort of way to show his dislike of the name as he stalked over to the sickly ghost.

"Okay, Les. Let's get this straight. There is nothing wrong with me. Thousands of females with vouch for me on that. The truth is that you're a ghost. A spirit. An apparition. A mere shadow of the man you once were. And before you start calling me insane, I suggest you take a peek at the meat shell you came from." He pointed over to the grave they were previously leaning over.

Leslie cautiously crawled over to the side of the recently dug hole and gasped. "Cripes!" Stepping back from the unshaven, overweight version of himself, he reached out for a nearby tree to support his stumbling form, but simply fell straight through the sturdy trunk and onto the slick grass once again.

'Alright, this charade is getting a little ridiculous. And if ghostie thinks that this whole, 'I don't know I'm dead' thing is going to keep me from salting and burning his ass. . . he doesn't have a clue who I am.' Dean thought with almost a certain satisfaction at the idea of finally setting fire to this spirit's remains.

"Sam, I want you get the equipment from the Impala." Dean faced his brother with a grin that could light up a room, or cause a bar fight - depended on the company - then patted his untrustworthy rifle. "I'll handle our little problem."

Sam nodded and headed off into the distance without a word. What was he supposed to say anyway? Get the frickin' materials yourself? Yeah, _that_ would have gone over well.

Dean turned around with a smirk. "Looks like it's just me and. . ." His voice trailed off as he realized that he was the only one there. "Great." He scanned the area and then took off in the direction opposite where the Impala was parked in search of Leslie. What he didn't see was the two men sitting behind a giant overrun shrubbery to the left of the dug up grave. They had arrived just as Leslie's spirit had mysteriously disappeared.

---

"Hey Doug?" The first man whispered quietly.

Doug glared at him. "Yeah Nate?"

Nate scratched the back of his head. "Why are we still here? It looks like those guys got to all the booty first."

Doug rolled his eyes. "Because man, we're not here for a dead guys wallet." He looked back over to freshly dug grave, a glint in his dark brown eyes. "We're here for the bones."

"Right." Nate nodded his head and looked in both directions the brothers had headed. "Let's go before they get back."

Doug smiled and the two of them quickly darted from the bushes; Nate jumping into the grave to hand the large body up to his partner. "How are we going to get to the bones anyway?"

Doug just smirked with a knowing look. "I have my ways. The important thing here is that we don't have to dig up a grave."

"Good point." Nate grinned and with a finale heave, threw the body over the top and onto the slick grass, allowing Doug to wrap his arms around the deceased's waist to drag him bag into the bushes. Just as Nate was pushing himself out of the hole, he heard a single voice coming from the right. With a leap and a sprint, he dashed into hiding with his partner before the tall brunet arrived.

---

"Dean?" Sam dropped the items he collected on the ground. "I got the salt. And a lighter." He flicked it open. "Ooh, look at that: fire!" Still nothing. "Dea-"

"Sam! Would you quit all that yelling. We're a graveyard for goodness sakes. Show some respect." Dean snarked while sauntering over to the grave. "Or at least remember that I don't where traffic code orange in the spring."

"Right." Sam rolled his eyes then looked around suspiciously. "Where's Leslie?"

"And that's another thing. What kind of parents name their son a pansy name like 'Leslie'?"

"According to what he told me about them earlier, not good ones." Sam sighed. "So where is he?"

"How should I know? One minute I'm telling you to grab the salt and then I turn around to see he pulled a Houdini on me."

"Dean, you really need to stop categorizing everything that happens to you in reference to other people."

"Fine." Dean huffed. "He's gone. Departed. Vanished. Disappeared. Hopefully never to return. Get the picture?"

"God you're a pain in the ass."

"Right back 'atcha."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Hey guys?"

Both brothers swung around to see that Leslie had reappeared and was staring intently into the grave they just dug. "Uh, where's my body?"


	3. Chapter 2

1Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this story. Even if your not reviewing, Thanks! I'm also sorry that I haven't been able to reply to your wonderful comments. But I plan for that to change. You're really are a moving force behind my drive to write more chapters, so. . . Now on to the story!

Chapter Two: Moving in Slow Motion

It has been said with certainty and a great deal of confidence, that a body is generally a very important thing to have. (Try getting a tan without one) So if you ever happen to keel over in a graveyard and then find yourself as a spirit or ghost, it is only natural that you might miss the shell you came from. After all, you've been with it your whole life. You've been through a lot together.

So had Leslie and his body. Granted, his body and him led a miserable life and his torso basically resented his previous eating style and lack of physical activity but it still represented the spirit within with all the honor a body could. If insults were tossed, thrown, typed, or otherwise slung at him concerning his faults, it would defend him with all of its might. Kinda like a mother bear fighting for her cub. . . except less poetic.

Now Leslie was staring down into an empty grave, inwardly mourning over the disappearance of his physical suit. Sure, now he had the six pack he always wanted, and a pimple free face, but the sense of loss was still overwhelming. He had come back just in time to hear the shorter man - he was pretty sure the brunet had called him Dean - call his brother a bitch. Some people were just plain crazy. . .

"Hey guys?"

Both brothers swung around to see that Leslie had reappeared and was staring intently into the grave they just dug. "Uh, where's my body?" He was certain that it had been there a minute ago.

Dean was the first to react. "Where the hell were you?"

"Where'd you put my body?" The ghost shot back.

"I didn't take your drunk body anywhere." The blond growled indignantly then thought about that remark and groaned. 'That sounded so wrong.'

"Well then where the hell is it? It's not like it walked off on its own!"

Sam and Dean laughed, winced and then unconsciously looked over their shoulders just to be sure. Sam shrugged his shoulders and walked over to look into the grave. "What the. . . it really _is_ gone." He said as if it was unexpected.

"I just said that." Leslie insisted.

Dean rubbed his forehead. "Les' spirit is still here so I think it's safe to rule out zombies or anything like that."

"Zombies?"

"I don't know man. There are so many things that don't always meet the quota." Sam countered.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"It would be just our luck. . ." Dean agreed.

"Are you on something?"

"We probably should do a sweep first though." Sam suggested. "Just in case."

"Hello? I'm still here!"

"You want the shotgun?" Dean offered while digging out a couple of silver looking bullets.

"Talking here and wanting answers!"

"Nah, I think I'll stick with the knife." Sam unsheathed the previously invisible curved blade from a hook on his belt and let it glint in the hazed over moonlight.

"Who the hell are you?"

Both brothers grinned, glanced at each other then looked Leslie's apparition in the partly transparent eyes, together saying: "The good guys."

Without another word they separated; Dean going left and Sam heading right, leaving Leslie to stand - well, hover anyway - alone, staring back and forth between the empty grave and the departing siblings. With a final furtive glimpse at the hole in the ground, he took off in a dead run - no pun intended - chasing after the retreating figure of a sandy haired man.

"Uh, hey, Dean right?"

Dean didn't even spare him a glance as he carefully scanned the ground while moving forward toward an area filled with brush and shrubbery. "Yeah."

"I was, you know, wondering what you're doing out here? It's past two in the morning and I mean, you and Sam over there are digging graves in the middle of the night and I'm dead. . ." Leslie's voice trailed off and suddenly the air became close to frigid. "Wait a minute. Did you kill me? Why would you do that? I don't even know you guys." His voice was verging on panicked and undeniably angry.

"Oh God." Dean grumbled. "Just what I need: a ghost jumping to conclusions. Come on man. You wake up to find out that you're dead and that me and my brothers dug your grave. We both have guns and a pretty wicked knife, and aren't all that freaked out that you're still hanging around and you automatically think that we murdered you? What kind of a logic is that?" Okay, it was backwards, but he didn't have time to battle a ghost without any bones of yet to burn.

"I, uh. . ." Leslie stumbled still trying to grasp the strange way of thinking Dean was on.

"You should be embarrassed." Dean continued, still not looking at a confused Les behind him.

The spirit was overcome with the desire to apologize for something. "I, uh, I'm sorry?" He practically squeaked.

"Yeah, well, just be glad you're talking to me." Dean's back was turned so Les couldn't see the amused smirk on his face. "Sam would have lectured your translucent ear off if he heard you come up with that ridiculous idea."

Les' mouth formed a perfect 'o' and he continued to follow Dean down an invisible path. "So then, what are we looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it." Dean replied halfheartedly.

"But-" The spirit was cut off by the sounds of yelling from the other side of the cemetery.

"Sam." Dean skidded to a stop and bolted the other way.

Now if this were a TV show, this would be the part were the camera would switch over to Sam and the audience would watch as our hero spotted a single man dragging a body over to a car and he would proceed to jump him, pushing both of them to the ground.

There would be a bright flash and you would see Dean running across the grave riddled grass, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggled to get to his brother before something bad happens. The lens would especially focus on his chest as his breathing came in and out. . . in and out. . . lower down to see his jean clad muscular legs hitting the ground in strong strides, letting the dirt kick up behind him. The puff of his chest. . . the swing of his arms. . . the rhythmic pace as he trots along. . . His head bent low in undeniable determination. . .

Hello! Quit marveling over his angelic looks and get on with the actual story!

Sorry. . .

Flash! And the camera zooms back over to Sam as he and his opponent are now standing again. Punches are flying and Sam's head snapped back, allowing his hair to dramatically sway in the wind. But falling is not an option and he resiliently places a few good hits in the man's stomach and jaw. What he didn't see though was another dark shadowy figure sneak up behind him with a crowbar in hand.

Another flash! Dean never saw the rock coming. Sneaky little bastard. It probably decided to sit there on purpose, just to trip up our ever loved hunter. With a gasp of surprise and a few well placed insults directed towards a no longer innocent rock, Dean was back on his sexy feet and running like there was an airplane ticket with his name on it behind him.

The brilliant flashes continue! Sam falls to the ground in a daze and the two shadowed figures quickly scoop up Les' body and dump it into the back of their truck. With a mocking wave goodbye and a grating squeal of tires, the vehicle sputters away toward the nearby road, heading for the highway. Sam groans from the ground and is relieved to see that the metal pole hadn't hit hard enough to draw blood. It had, however left a pretty remarkable sized bump on the back of his head.

TV show ends and reality continues. . .

"Sam!"

"I'm over here."

Dean immediately ran to the voice and was relieved when he saw his brother's form pushing itself off the ground. "What happened?"

Sam rubbed the back of his head and winced. "It seems that unlike our ghost friend and other unfriendly spirits, the body snatchers are solid." He shook his head and sighed. "They were just people Dean."

"People? What would people be doing out here now? That's just crazy."

"Yeah, I always thought you were a bit unstable yourself."

"You know what I mean. Why would they be stealing a body?"

"Beats me."

"I can see that. What did they do? Smack you with a brick?"

"I don't know. Some kind of bar I think." Sam groaned as he could feel yet another bruise forming on the side of his jaw.

"Not the 'It's oh so chocolatey chewy' kind then, huh?"

Sam just rolled his eyes. "Forget it." He started to stumble back to where the car was parked. "And I say we forget about the body too. It's not like Les is causing problems or anything."

"Yet." Dean pointed out. "He hasn't caused problems 'yet'."

"Whatever."

"It's not just 'whatever' Sam! It's our job!"

"No, our job is to burn the evil sonavabitchs that are creating trouble."

"Fine!" Dean growled. "We can go on our merry way and come back _after_ Les kills some innocent kid or something. Forget how nice it would be to get the bad guy _before_ he commits that crime."

"Have you ever seen Minority Report?"

"No, why?" Dean couldn't figure where Sam was going with this.

"Nothing. Nevermind."

Both brothers trudged over to the car, collecting their salt and lighter on the way.

"By the way, where's Les?"

Were they having that conversation again?

"How should I know? One minute, I'm tracking, then you're yelling, then he pulls a- uh he disappears again."

"Great." Sam gave a frustrated sigh and lightly tapped on the Impala's hood.

"What?"

"How is it you manage to lose the same ghost twice in one night?"

"I would have liked to see you do better." Dean sneered.

"Sure, next time I'll babysit the harmless spirit and you get your head bashed in by a metal pole."

Dean slid angrily into the driver's seat as Sam plopped down in the passenger side. A minute later and they were driving slowly down the street, away from the cemetery. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Uh guys?"

Both brothers jumped at the unexpected voice. Leslie was once again behind them, sitting in the back seat of the car.

"What the hell?" Dean cursed under his breath.

"Um, not to cause problems or anything, but isn't the truck with my body going the other way?"

Okay, I'm not nearly as satisfied with that chapter as I was hoping, but maybe you all are seeing it in a different light. Just so you know, my sister and I have spent endless hours (between 1:00am and 3:00am mostly - Haha!) plotting and planning this fic of mine, so in case you were wondering, I'm not completely winging it. I have an actual storyline here. Lots more funny on the way! Check in soon to see what new hilarious situation these brothers are placed in.

Your crazed writer friend - Kerri


	4. Chapter 3

**Quick Note:** Just wanted to say how sorry I am that I didn't post this chapter sooner. I have no excuse other than I'm lazy. I throw myself at your mercy. But if you all decide not to burn me at the stake, I'll try to post sooner from now on. Deal? - Slow Typing Kerri

**Chapter Three: This Is A Stick-Up**

A rather long time ago in place called Greece not so far away, (depending where you live in relation to) philosophers generally held to thinking that objects moved because they 'wanted' to move, or because it was in their 'nature' to move. Working from these views of the ancient Greek studier, Aristotle, men explained all kinds of natural phenomena as the result of assumed tendencies in objects. It was said that objects moved because it was attempting to reach it's proper place in the universe. These beliefs were backed with reasoning such as: smoke rises from the fire because it belongs in the sky, whereas in contrast, rain falls to the earth because it belongs on the ground.

This theory however was disproved many years later by the famous Galileo Galilei and Sir Isaac Newton. And a good thing too because those philosophers would have had a lot of explaining to do to Dean Winchester.

You see, Dean Winchester did not 'want' to turn the steering wheel and head in the completely opposite direction of the motel they were staying at that night. And it was not in his 'nature' to give up a hot shower in turn for a car chase at past two in morning. Yet somehow he found himself doing just that at the bidding of a confused ghost and his generally nagging brother, Sam.

For about three hours, the pitch black, beautifully sleek '67 Chevy Impala raced down the road, in pursuit of an old Ford truck that looked like the weight of a butterfly would cause it to shatter.

"Dean! Slow down!"

Sam was practically cringing in his seat as his brother's foot pressed harder down on the gas pedal, pushing his baby to go even faster.

"Speed up Dean; slow down Dean." Dean mimicked Sam's earlier requests and growled. "Make up your freakin' mind already."

"I want you to go fast, I just don't want to fly through the windshield when you slam on the brakes." The younger insisted while his hands balled up into tight fists at his side; his knuckles turning white.

"Slam on the brakes?" Dean raised an eyebrow and turned to face his brother.

"Dude! Eyes on the road!"

Dean just laughed. Conceding to Sam's demand, he faced the road, but instead of leaving it at that, he winked his right eye closed, quickly followed by his left.

Sam's mouth hung agape. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"Letting the Force guide me Luke. What did you think I was doing?" Dean's eyes remained closed.

"Ooh! Can I be Han Solo?" A new voice was added into the equation of the bickering brothers. In case you're new to this story and decided to read this chapter first, even though it _is clearly_ chapter three, this particular voice belonged to an estranged ghost whose name was Leslie. Strike that. It belonged to an estranged, annoying, dang clueless ghost whose name was Leslie.

If you were talking to Dean, he would probably have had a thousand more colorful ways to describe this apparition, but this fic is only rated T and the strikeout button is on the fritz.

Dean finally opened his eyes and rolled his eyes. "No, you can't be Han Solo. I'm Han Solo." He lifted one hand off the steering wheel to point at himself meaningfully.

Leslie looked downcast for a moment before suddenly perking up. "But Han can't use the Force." He announced triumphantly.

The elder hunter made a strangled growl in the back of his throat. "Sure he can. Those new books. . . what are they called? You know, the ones where he's married to the hot princess. Right?" He looked to Sam for confirmation.

Sam shook his head. "Sorry man. Leslie's right. Han Solo never had Jedi powers."

"Traitor." Dean mumbled under his breath.

"So I'm Han!" Leslie piped up again, nearly fraying Dean's last nerve.

"No. I'm Han." He again pointed to himself. "Sam's Luke." He pointed to his brother who was looking like he was trying to pretend they weren't having this conversation.

"Can I be Luke instead? Maybe you're brother can be C-3PO or something."

"What?" Sam actually sounded hurt.

"Hm, I don't know Sam. Les here might have a point. You always act so brainy all the time. . ." Dean tried to smother the grin tugging at his lips.

"I do not."

"Fine. Sorry Les. I guess you're Chewbacca."

"But Chewbacca's lame." Leslie protested. "No one even knows what he's saying unless there's subtitles."

"Except for Han." Sam pointed out. "They're best buddies or something."

"Oh." Dean seemed to think that over. "Alright. He's demoted to R2-D2."

Leslie frowned and decided instead of trying to reason with the brothers who were obviously out to make his life - or death anyway - miserable, to look out the window. That was when he saw the small outline of a Ford truck in front of them.

"Hey guys. I think we're catching up."

"Alright then." Dean gave a relieved sigh and then a happy chuckle. "Get ready for the fireworks."

He tossed Sam his .45 and his brother nodded, rolling down the car's window and pointed the weapon at the driver's side of the truck as they drove up along side it. It was too dark to see exactly who was inside, but it didn't matter. Sam already knew that those crowbar hauling thugs meant business. It was time to match fire with water.

Taking careful aim, he pressed down on the trigger and enjoyed the small kick back as the bullet was launched from the barrel and hit its mark. The back left tire instantly began to lose air and started to swerve dangerously across the road.

"Careful Dean." Sam instructed, though he knew it was unnecessary. "He's losing control."

It only took a few more seconds before the truck slammed to a stop, sitting still on the side of the road. Dean followed in suit as his slowed to a halt and carefully exited the Impala, gun in hand. Sam had already gone over to the Ford and was pulling the driver's door open.

Dean decided to let him handle the punks so he moved to the back to retrieve the body. Just like he suspected, he saw a fat, drunk, Leslie sized mound covered and wrapped up in a rough blanket, surrounded by what looked like. . . petunias?

Before the hunter could begin to form an opinion on the discovery, he saw Sam coming toward him with a stunned expression on his face. He also had his hands on the top of his head. "Uh, Dean. . . I think this is the wrong truck."

'What the hell?'

Just as he was about to voice that question, he saw Sam shift to the side, revealing probably the one and only thing he had never thought he would see.

"Alright you hooligans. Put your hands up and no sudden moves. I may not look it but I sure as a pickle is green can shoot this contraption with deadly accuracy."

Stepping out to stand next to Sam, though still keeping the small handgun pointing at the younger, stood a thin, gray haired, wrinkled, old lady who, standing straight, came up to about Sammy's waist. She was dressed in slacks, and white t-shirt. She also had a scary as hell, angry glare staring daggers right at the two of them.

For a minute, Dean could only stand there in shock. Until the granny meaningfully poked Sam in the stomach with her gun. He quickly placed his hands on top of his head and carefully squatted down to his knees.

"Good boy." She said while again poking Sam and sending him to sit next to Dean. "Now would either of you young men care to explain to me as to why you shot a hole in my tire before I call the cops?"

"Uh."

Yeah. That was about all that would come out. I mean, really. How the heck do you explain that you're chasing down after a body snatching bandit so you could burn a man's bones and send him to the Great Beyond, but you mistook her truck for someone else's and that really, they hadn't meant to shoot out her tire and run her off the road. It was all just a big misunderstanding.

Yeah, right. Dean hardly believed it himself. How the hell did things like this happen to them? When did they get so careless? This never would have happened to John.

Sadly, there are just a few things that are in the 'Do Not's' of the 'Hunting Ghosts and Demons For Dummies' handbook, and at some point or other both Sam and Dean had suffered from not reading the fine print.

1) Never lose at poker or pool. You'd be kissing that new Desert Eagle goodbye. (The gun Dummy!)

2) Look both ways before crossing the street

3) Never make deals with demons. It's like shopping at Scams 'R Us

4) Never get held hostage by a gun toting granny

Sam was pretty sure they had the shittiest luck ever known to man.

Dean was just happy Bobby wasn't here to see this. As it was, the elder carefully scanned the bushes to be sure that he wasn't hiding in the bushes with a camera. Just in case. He also noticed that Leslie was nowhere to be seen. Figures.

Sam nudged his shoulder and gave a look that said it all. But again, this story is rated mild T. So here's the edited version:

'We are so screwed.'

* * *

Nate snuck another furtive glance outside the trucks window as Doug pushed down harder on the gas pedal. Nope. Nothing was behind them. Nobody was following them.

"Huh, I thought for sure that they would have come after us."

Doug just blew out a puff of air. "What's wrong with them? I mean we just stole a body and knocked the younger out. You would think that, that would warrant at least a short car chase or something."

Nate brought his head back in the window and gasped as a realization hit. "Maybe you're driving too fast! Or maybe I hit him too hard with the crowbar. Or maybe they got hit by a truck. Maybe we should go back and see if their okay."

"What? Are you crazy? This is what we wanted remember?"

Nate bit his lip and then nodded. "Oh, right. I forgot. Are you sure we're not going to get in trouble for this?"

"What do you think?"

Nate again nodded and though on the outside he acted ecstatic and excited at what they were planning, on the inside he was only repeating four words, over and over again.

'We are so screwed.'

* * *

For the record, I am nowhere near associated with Lucas and his Star Wars creation. Just thought you should know. So, any thoughts? Is this little story keeping you entertained? Curious as to how Sam and Dean get out of this one? More to come, I promise - Kerri 


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